Among the Faithful

by Dahris Martin

  Kalipha shambled after me a moment later. ‘But my little one!’ he cried with the pride of a tutor whose student has carried off high honours. ‘It was magnificent! Before you had reached the street Tahar gave orders that rooms should be prepared. C’était une victoire superbe, je vous dis! Superbe!’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ I choked from the depth of my remorse.

  As for my ‘superb victory’ it was no victory at all. When after three days the women were still there, even Kalipha had to acknowledge that he had accomplished nothing – except to make a monkey of me. But that he would never acknowledge! I had done magnificently in any case, and was it our fault that Tahar was the father of all pigs?

  If Kalipha had been allowed his way I would have moved on the spot. But it was already March, and in May I planned to join friends in Brittany where I would spend a part of the summer. (Beatrice had, by this time, returned to America.) To rent a small house, as he suggested, meant a considerable outlay which, in view of my trip, I simply could not afford. Ramadan would soon be over, the girls would go back to Tunis and Gafsa, Gabes and Sousse, and the Hôtel de Sfax would be itself again. Kalipha dared not be at all vehement on the subject. For days after the now celebrated interview, I could not treat him civilly. At his house I chatted with Mohammed, Eltifa, with everybody but Kalipha. When, as was his custom, he dropped in during the day to find how I was faring, I went on with my work, taking no notice whatsoever of his dejected presence. At last, getting up he would say, very gently: ‘Have you letters for the post, ma petite?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Can I refill the carafe?’

  ‘No, Ali has already done so.’

  ‘Would a morsel of fish delight Kiddypussy?’

  ‘No – yes, well, do as you wish.’

  Stung, bewildered, even the will to get me out of my environment was not so strong as the necessity to win me back to our old habit of friendship. But every expression of his solicitude met with the coolest indifference. Until Ramadan was over my high-handed Kalipha was to be kept precisely where I had him – under my thumb.

  Meanwhile, it was a strange experience to be living, inviolate, in the midst of a whore-house. The artistes, who had been picked from the restricted districts of cities all over the dominion, were under as strict surveillance as if they had been lodged on The Street; by law they were prohibited from quitting the premises. During the day things were fairly quiet. They slept late, then trailed about in négligés laughing, jabbering, kidding Ali, squabbling and rapturously hailing Kalipha and the postman. Quite often they had fights – wild, primitive bouts that simply terrified me. Once something very large crashed against my door – I think it was a wash-bowl. Their shouts and screams brought half the street rushing up to quell the riot, but five minutes after such a contest they were, to all appearances, the best of friends.

  They always treated me with a kind of shy formality. As I came and went it was always, ‘Bonjour, Madame’, nothing more. Only once did one of them knock at my door. She had in her hand a sheet of ruled paper and an envelope. She had heard my writing-machine, she explained hesitantly, in perfectly intelligible French. Was I, perhaps, a writer? In that case, would I – would I have the great kindness to write her mother a letter? Why of course, would she come in? I took her paper and picked up my pen. But maybe she preferred me to use the typewriter? She brightened. O would I! It would be so much more – so much more chic. ‘Chère Maman,’ she dictated, ‘Je suis bien. Je n’ai plus du mal à la tête. Je suis à Kairouan avec un café-concert. Il ne faut pas faire le mauvais sang pour moi. Je suis toute à vous. Klarah Galeenie.’ While I was addressing the envelope, she took a pencil and below the typed signature made her own mark, explaining, ‘Like that, Ummi will see it is me.’

  Towards sundown every evening the girls began to prepare their fatoor, for they were keeping the fast as scrupulously as the rest of us. Each had her own fire-pot, her own earthen vessels, and the picture they made grouped together at the far end of the hall, stooping and crouching in their brilliant head-dresses and hip-scarves, was memorably beautiful.

  The ‘concert’ in the back room of the restaurant began early and went on until midnight. When it ended below stairs, its sequel started above, and until daybreak the Hôtel de Sfax gave itself up to carousal – doors banging, mandolines, hilarious laughter, coffee boys running up and down stairs, singing, the constant throb of pottery drums, clapping, lusty shouts of ‘Sahit! Sahit!’ – as one of the hostesses did a hot dance – clients coming and clients going to make room for more!

  After the sahoor, our last meal, when Kalipha, very reluctantly, took me home, the revelry was still going on, but behind closed doors, doubtlessly out of deference to Madame. Occasionally on the dim stairs we would meet a young man of good family; Kalipha would avert his eyes as the other slipped hastily past us. In such circumstances, one must never, never mortify a man by recognition.

  My new attitude towards Kalipha was becoming increasingly hard to maintain. Once I began to see the humour of my command performance, angry resentment was done for, and all the affection I felt for my friend surged back with increase because I now knew him better. It was my little cat, of whom we were both absurdly fond, that made it hardest to hold out against Kalipha’s blandishments.

  Like all the black cats I have ever known, Kiddypussy was an out and out individualist, and, like any cat that is made much of, he was articulate and knowing. ‘He talks. I swear he talks!’ Kalipha often marvelled. His own household had always included a couple of furtive, half-wild, negligible felines, but never had he known the like of this one! ‘Mais vous savez, il n’est pas un chat!’ he would solemnly assure me. In short, Kiddypussy was in a fair way of becoming legendary among the Arabs who were perfectly ready to believe him to be three parts djinn.

  It was on a morning toward the middle of Ramadan that Kalipha came in with boiled liver. I greeted him briefly and turned back to my work. He waited in silence until Kiddypussy had polished the plate. ‘Was the liver to your taste, my little monsieur?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me, have you eaten well? Eaten until the stomach is round like a melon? Dined, in effect, like a prince?’ He kept this up until the cat left off washing his face and threw his whole weight against Kalipha’s leg. ‘Ah, that is better!’ he said approvingly, gathering him to his lap. ‘For whether you have eaten well or badly, my friend, politeness is the principal thing in the life. And now, give me your ear for a little moment. Sit down, that is right, and listen well, if you please, for my heart is heavy, heavy, Kiddypussy, and who have I but you to tell of my misery?’

  The understanding between the two was uncanny! From the tail of my eye I saw that the cat had obediently settled himself and had assumed, under the even strokes of the brown hand, quite a meditative air.

  ‘I assure you, my friend,’ Kalipha continued, ‘I walk about like a man condemned. Abdallah, Eltifa, they speak to me, I do not hear. “His thoughts are on pilgrimage,” they say. Ah, yes, they know my despair! I walk, I sit, I make my little purchases, I prepare the fatoor, but always it is as if somebody else were wearing these garments, this robe, this vest, this fez. This morning, while I was marketing, you understand, I stepped in front of a camel – a camel high as a minaret – enormous – a veritable chameau de bataille, I assure you. They seized me by the skirts not a second too soon! But whether I live or die, Kiddypussy, it is all the same to me. Will you visit me sometimes at Sidi Abdelli? I shall be sleeping beneath the cold earth …’ A few minutes more of this and I had either to laugh or to cry, so I laughed, we both laughed, and Kiddypussy, as if he perfectly understood, jumped from Kalipha’s lap into mine!

  Oh the relief of being friends again! Reconciled, without any mention of moving, – decidedly, we had both triumphed! I had not long, however, to cherish this illusion. Two days after our reconciliation, quite early in the morning, there was a knock at the door and Kalipha came in followed by his friend Sidi Brahim, a spahis or policeman, and Sidi Salla
h, Tahar’s half-brother who ran the restaurant downstairs. All three had the look of bringing me very bad news. ‘Ma pauvre petite,’ Kalipha sighed as he seated himself, ‘you did not close your eyes all night!’

  ‘But I slept very well!’ I said, truthfully.

  ‘Impossible!’ they cried out aghast. I had not been molested? Nobody had tried my door? I had not heard? The fighting? The screams? Not even the shots? Why, between three and four, this place was a madhouse! Jealous clients doing battle up and down the corridor – the women tearing around, hanging out of the windows screeching for help – a mob on the stairs! The revolver shots were heard in the French town!

  Up to this point they had all talked at once. ‘Unhappily,’ went on Sidi Brahim very gravely, ‘Monsieur the commissaire has heard of the scandale. But what would you, he is not deaf! This morning I was summoned before him and – and – but it is necessary that I tell you the truth – I was charged with the responsibility of moving you to safer lodgings. You will pardon me, Mademoiselle, I do only my duty which, Allah in His wisdom knows, is utterably detestable to me! Permit me to counsel you, Mademoiselle,’ he lowered his eyes apologetically, ‘it would be wise to move at once.’

  ‘At once!’ I cried, ‘this minute? But where shall I go!’

  ‘I assure you from my heart,’ soothed Kalipha, taking my hand, ‘there is absolutely no cause for anxiety. Your good friends have settled everything. Sidi Brahim,’ he put his hand on the other’s shoulder, ‘came directly to me. “The situation is such-and-such” said he “what can we do?” Oh, I tell you, Sherifa, he was distracted! So together we found you a house. Indeed, we have already persuaded the landlord – Sidi Taïb who has his shop in the saddle souk – to waive the quarter lease and allow you to pay by the month. As for furniture – Sallah, here, has already laid the situation before Sidi Tahar who has said you may have the use of everything in this room, without charge, for as long as you need them. Tell me, am I right or wrong, Sidi Sallah?’ (Sallah smilingly swore he was right.) ‘So, my little one,’ Kalipha declared, ‘all you have to do is put Kiddypussy in this bag and stroll over to your new home. And what a beautiful little house it is! You will see – un vrai chateau!’ His effusion was put an end to by a loud knocking and Ali stuck his head in to say that the donkey awaited below. ‘Then come, let us go!’ Kalipha cried gaily, whereupon, in the same spirit, they all fell to carrying out my table, bed, chairs, and wash-stand. Within an hour I was moved.

  CHAPTER 13

  Fatma Becomes a Problem

  I SUPPOSE I WOULD have disliked any house I had moved into under the same circumstances, even if it had been a ‘château’, which mine assuredly was not. It was the typical lower-class house, a hollow square of one storey situated in a foul little lane solid with dwellings more or less like mine. On the stone lintel were graven the Arabic characters, ‘He is the Great Creator, the Everlasting’. How many centuries of tenants had these charmed words protected and reminded of mortality! The door-key (it looked capable of opening a dungeon) admitted you into a vaulted passage which crooked into the court. Opening upon the court, at right angles to each other, were two long narrow rooms, each having a pair of low windows, one on either side the door. There was, also, a dark, rank-smelling crypt, a combination kitchen-latrine with a brick oven and a simple hole in the floor.

  ‘Isn’t it nice?’ cried Kalipha with anxious exuberance as I stood looking around. ‘Here, you see, is the well. Water for cleaning and washing only. Did you remark that the rooms have been freshly whitewashed? How the good sun pours into this little court! It is charming, isn’t it? Well-arranged and so clean. Perfect, in fact, for a demoiselle living alone. Ah, look up, ma petite, your neighbours have come to bid you welcome!’ Several kerchiefed heads were poised upon the parapet. Without glancing up, Kalipha spoke to them, and immediately their fingers flew to their mouths and the zaghareet crowned us. ‘They are wishing you good fortune! Thank them, my little one! Tell them katarheerick!’

  But my thoughts were morbidly measuring the height of the walls. The parapet was scarcely twelve feet above us; in the black of night a man could easily lower himself into the court. I was suddenly belligerent. I had been compelled to move – actually or by connivance I would never know – but not Kalipha nor Sidi Brahim nor even the French could force me to live here alone. Kalipha was prepared for everything. ‘What an idea!’ he exclaimed reproachfully. ‘Do you think I would permit you to live here alone! I, who am responsible for your peace of mind and safety! Ah, ma petite, for shame! At this very moment Fatma and the rest of my effects are on the way. Look!’ he pointed, ‘there is your chamber – and here is mine. Quite separate, quite private. But come now, to work! First we must burn benjoin upon the fire-pot – disinfect this house of evil djinns that would make us mischief!’

  One small donkey sufficed to transfer Kalipha’s chattels and that evening, by way of housewarming, he prepared an elaborate fatoor in our own court. Eltifa and Abdallah were invited and, to Kalipha’s evident satisfaction, Abdallah completed the fumigation of our dwelling by chanting the ninety-nine names of Allah. One could fairly see the djinns scrambling out of cracks and cornersfalling over one another – darting every way – running for their lives at the sound of those august attributes! ‘Now,’ sighed Kalipha with immense relief, ‘the house is habitable!’

  The excitement of moving soon wore away, but the strangeness of my new quarters never did. I felt I was buried alive. In exchange for my window, the terrace, I had a square blue patch of sky. I missed the torrential noise of the street, that full exhilarating sense of living in the very core of Kairouan. Fatma and I were alone much of the day and the house was dead quiet, so quiet I could hear the rapid whiff-whiff of the fan whenever she lit the fire-pot. My table had been set near the window, for although the court always blazed with sunshine, my room was as dim as one of the mosque-tombs that dot the cemeteries. I was never unconscious of the room. Uneasy, faintly depressed, I was always secretly relieved when the evening brought us together in Kalipha’s lamp-lit chamber. Most of the time I went through only the motions of work, but occasionally, when I was really absorbed, lost to my surroundings, a hideous fright would grab hold of me – a feeling that someone, something, had come up behind me. ‘What is the matter?’ Fatma would look up with her quizzical smile as I burst into the court. But I couldn’t explain the seizure even to myself. Perhaps I was tired, my nerves were ravelled, I needed a change. I knew that I was very worried. For Fatma was ill, dreadfully ill, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  My pleas on her behalf had always angered Kalipha, nevertheless he had tolerated her for my sake. The beginning of the end came last winter. His worry over Kadeja’s trouble had told on his temper and poor Fatma, it often seemed, had only to set a vessel here instead of there to demonize him. Frequently when I came in to dinner, Fatma was not in sight. The explanation was invariably the same. There had been a row, Kalipha had beaten her or not beaten her, as the case might be, and Fatma was moping in the dark clammy hole off the court known as ‘the storage room’. It was Eltifa and Abdallah’s policy at such times to keep strictly to themselves. Mohammed, who had no love for his stepmother, was always as furious as Kalipha, and so, despite daily-renewed vows to mind my own business, I always found myself championing Fatma.

  The climax came one miserable night during the rainy season. Fatma had a heavy cold which I was doctoring with aspirin and goose-grease. In reply to my ‘How is Fatma this evening?’ Mohammed shrugged his shoulders in the direction of the storage room. The rain was beating into the court. I threw my burnous over my head and dashed across to the threshold of the void where Fatma was hiding. To the point of tears I beseeched her to come back to the fire, but it was of no use, she would not even answer. My dismay, the fact that I could eat no supper, only made matters worse, for Kalipha’s anger, which had cooled by the time I arrived, was rapidly regaining the boiling point. Getting up suddenly, he flung open the door and commanded Fatm
a once, twice to return. Then, receiving no answer, to my horror he started after her with his cane. From that black cavern I heard her cry imploringly, ‘Mreetha, y’Sidi, mreetha!’ I am sick, O my master! I am sick! My own shrieks spared her a beating, but Kalipha returned with dreadful decision, hurled down the stick, and threw his burnous over his head. He started out, then paused, his hand upon the door. ‘It is finished! To-morrow I divorce her. I am now – Silence!’ he glared as I opened my mouth, ‘I am now going to give her sister warning. I will divorce this woman, but I shall not turn her out like a dog, as better men than I would do. No! I will first warn her sister, her uncle, that between them they can decide where she is to go.’ The door banged behind him as he flung himself into the rain.

  That Kalipha may not seem an utter brute, it is only fair to present his side of the story. In matrimony he had never been lucky. His first wife, Aisha, fought with his family. His second, Shelbeia, disgraced her husband by flirting to and from the baths. (But she parted her veils once too often!) Hanoona, the mother of Mohammed, neglected house and child and, on the day he fell down the stairs, Kalipha announced that he was finished with women … as wives.

  He kept his vow for three years, or, until Eltifa rebelled. Against every argument of hers he could stand firm, except this, ‘Keep your vow, O my brother. Nobody has a better right. But marry yourself a servant. Among the women stranded by divorce you will find many that would be thankful to earn their keep in wedlock.’ So he was forced to relent; it was noised about town that Kalipha ben Kassem was in the market for a ‘wife’.